Of Intellectual Relationships and School Crushes
by Flame Tigress
Summary: Tom Riddle's resolve never to love is tested by an unlikely girl...and her conviction that all Slytherins are scum is also thrown into doubt. PG for mild profanity (not for anything romantic).


Of Intellectual Relationships and School Crushes ****

Note: This is my first-ever romance, and it's not very mushy or sloppy, you will be disappointed to find out. But in my opinion and my beta reader's, it's quite clever and nicely satirical. It's rather long for a short story, but too short for chapters, so bear with me. I may get a bit bogged down in magical theory, so if you don't find it interesting, feel free to skip over it. Naturally, many of the characters and the setting belong to the great and wonderful goddess J.K. Rowling. In case you were wondering, I got the idea for this relationship long before I read Hogwarts Hos' "A Toadlicker, a Goth, and a Momma's Boy"; if you weren't wondering, excuse the digression while I say that **I am not stealing any Fan Fiction author's intellectual property.**

Thanks to my beta reader, Meliara. I couldn't do it without you, man. *Weep, weep.* 

The perspective of this story is first person, alternating between Minerva and Tom. A little line of nine ~'s indicates a switch in the narrator.

Of Intellectual Relationships and School Crushes

"He looked at you again!" Christine whispers, giggling.

"Who did?" I ask calmly, not bothering to look up from my Astronomy homework.

"You know! _Him!_ Tom Riddle," Christine hisses.

I look up and fix my best friend with the sternest look I can muster over my rectangular spectacles. "The same 'him' that you and every other girl in the school are smitten with and sighing for."

"Well, isn't he cute?" she mutters, giggling again.

I sigh with exasperation and looked across the library to the table where Tom Riddle, the most handsome, charming, and intelligent boy in the school, is studying. He has been directing his gaze somewhere other than his schoolwork, but quickly ducks his obsidian-haired head when he sees me watching him. "Yes, he's extremely cute," I tell Christine nonchalantly. "He knows it, too." Then I resume doing my homework.

"He _likes _you," Christine says from behind a conspiratorial hand.

"I can't imagine why," I say distractedly, looking from my book to my star chart and transferring information busily.

"Because you're the smartest and prettiest girl in sixth year, Minnie, that's why," Christine says wistfully.

"No, I'm not, I'm quite plain," I demur firmly, "and if you call me 'Minnie' again, I swear I'll murder you. The name's _Minerva,_ if you please."

"I only do that to annoy you, you know," Christine says playfully. "It's _so_ easy."

"You're usually quite reasonable," I say sternly. "I wish your reason could carry into conversations about Tom Riddle. And no, he _does not_ like me. He's a Slytherin; we're Gryffindors. You have a reason to worship him, I suppose, since he saved you from Petrification last year. But if he's courting me, it's because I'm the only girl at Hogwarts he doesn't have wrapped around his deft, competent little finger. He can't bear to have one not swooning over him."

~~~~~~~~~

I can't imagine why I like her. I don't know if it's because she's the only girl at Hogwarts I don't have wrapped around my little finger. She's quite clever, and reasonably pretty. But she's a _Gryffindor,_ for God's sake! A Gryffindor and the Heir of Slytherin? How ridiculous! Anyway, I'm never going to love anyone – look where it got my mother! Dying on the streets!

But it's not love, that's the thing. A schoolboy crush, that's it. Damn, I'm looking at her again. She just caught me at it. She's talking to that Mudblood friend of hers again. That one didn't stay dead. She was cured when the Mandrakes did their job. But Minerva's a pureblood witch.

Well, maybe I could just talk to her about schoolwork or something. Not that I'd need help, of course. But an intellectual discussion of theory never hurt anyone. It must be her intelligence that I like. Or her cool-headedness. She must be the only girl, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin, who doesn't get all giggly, embarrassed, or seductive on me when I'm trying to talk to her. (I like the admiration, though. I have power over all of them, but they have no power over me.) The only people in the school who don't fall for my charm are Professor Dumbledore, the Transfiguration teacher (he suspected me in the attacks last year, I know it) and Minerva McGonagall. 

But what to talk about with her? I glance over my Potions textbook, hastily searching, then walk coolly over to the table where Minerva and her friend are doing their homework. Once I impress her with my brilliance, she'll be won over.

"Hi, Minerva," I say, turning on my charming smile.

"Hello, Tom," she says calmly, shifting her homework ever so slightly to clear a space on the table in front of the empty chair. I sit down. The friend – Christine, I think her name is – turns a most interesting shade of reddish pink and smiles secretively at Minerva. The latter remains quite skin-colored, which is almost frustrating.

"I had a theoretical question. Or no – question isn't the right word."

"Oh?" Minerva asks nonchalantly, raising her eyebrows. She isn't flustered at all, though her friend's demeanor makes up for the both of them.

"I was thinking about potions, such as the Shrinking Solution and Scintillation Solution, and I wondered if 'solution' is a fitting term."

Minerva pondered this with her head at a slight inclination, then said, "It probably isn't. The brewing of the potion is more like a chemical reaction than solution. In solutions, the parts retain their physical properties, but when chemical reactions occur, the reactants' properties, both chemical and physical, change. Drinkable potions can be made with ingredients that are toxic on their own. Also, the color is not often in accordance with the colors of the components."

"My reasoning exactly," I say, smiling even more charmingly. She isn't as smart as I am – she didn't think of this on her own – but she's close, if she can come up with my brilliant ideas so quickly. "Another thing is the phase of matter – highly viscous potions can, on occasion, be made with only liquid ingredients."

"Proportions," Minerva muses, her chin in her hand pensively. "Don't the potions turn out differently if there is more or less than specified of a certain ingredient? Solutions are considered the same no matter what the relative amounts of the solute and the solvent, but chemical reactions don't balance properly if the parts aren't in a certain ratio."

"Like the Shrinking Solution," Christine contributes unexpectedly then ducks her head, flushing more brightly.

"Yes, I thought of that," I say kindly, nodding magnanimously to the other girl. "It turns orange and becomes poisonous if there is too much leech juice or rat spleen, when it is supposed to be acid green and quite harmless."

"So now that you've caught the mistake of generations of magical geniuses," Minerva says sarcastically, "what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," I respond vaguely. "I could tell Professor Brurey" (the Potions master, of course) "or I could write a thesis…or I could do nothing at all."

Minerva gives me a thin-lipped smile. There is nothing flirtatious about it.

I saunter back to my own library table and my Potions homework, having accomplished absolutely nothing. It's so irritating to be almost universally adored, but not quite.

~~~~~~~~~

"Oh, my God," Christine gasps. "He practically admitted that he is falling for you! 'Theoretical question,' my eye! He just wanted to sit near you and hear your voice…"

"You are truly ridiculous, you know that, Chrissy?" I say in disbelief, shaking my head. "What was the name of that color red you turned? Was it puce, or all the way to cranberry?"

"If you call me 'Chrissy,' then I'll just have to call you 'Minnie' to get you back," Christine huffs indignantly. "Tom Riddle is in love with you, Minnie, and that's that. You _know_ you're happy about it, too."

Well, it was suspicious. Why on earth would he want to discuss Potions theory with a Gryffindor girl? Besides the fact, of course – not meaning to brag, only to be frank – that I am the only one in sixth year who is remotely close to being Tom's intellectual equal. He is brilliant, I have to give him that. And extremely handsome as well. And egotistical, and condescending…I hate him so much it makes me sick! _He_ makes me sick, the way his false charm seems to be controlled by a dial that he is always turning up.

It's Monday again, and I just can't forget about Tom Riddle's odd behavior on Saturday. It is December – everyone is talking about who is going with whom to the Yule Ball. I went fourth year; it was a disappointment. The ball certainly wasn't going to be very merry my fifth year, what with all the attacks going on. Christine was stone cold and staring in a bed in the hospital wing during Christmas, so I just didn't feel like going at all. But Christine is absolutely positive that a certain someone is going to ask me to be his date this year. I do admit to being flattered that Tom seems to have a crush on me. The most desired and least attainable boy in school, liking me? Anyone in my position would be hopeful.

The halls of Hogwarts are full of excited chatter, and Christine gets caught up in it, even if I try not to.

Our other best friends, Clytemnestra and Helen (they're twins – hence the names of the Greek mythological sisters), come toward us at a run, their book bags and long hair flying. They don't look at all alike; their appearances are in accordance with their mythological namesakes – Clytemnestra is passably pretty, with dark brown hair and eyes, while Helen is stunningly beautiful with remarkable golden hair and blue eyes. I don't see how Christine can say that I am the "prettiest girl in sixth year" when I am compared to Helen. While my own black hair and eyes against skin that is so pale as to be almost white are…striking, I am not beautiful. Now, the ironic thing about my twin friends' names is that unlike the characters they are named for, Clytemnestra is sweet and good-natured, and Helen is caustically witty (a kindred spirit to myself).

"Christine! Minerva!" Clytemnestra calls breathlessly just before nearly skidding into me. Her pink face gradually resumes its normal hue as she asks, "How much did you write on that History of Magic essay? My God, it was so boring, I just barely made the three feet…I was writing really big towards the end there, too! How much can you write about another stupid meeting of the Wizards' Confederation when you fell asleep listening to Binns' lecture? Sometimes I wish he would just die so we could get an interesting teacher for once…"

"I think not even the grave could stop Binns on his quest to bore every student in Britain to death," Helen says dryly.

"I think I wrote about four feet – with supplementary material from books, of course," I say.

"Three feet, nine inches," Christine states proudly. "Almost as much as Minerva. And that's saying something." She is smart, as long as she isn't talking about boys (especially Tom). After all, I made friends with her in the first place because she was intelligent and I could talk to her about intellectual subjects. It's the same with Helen, who puts in, "My essay's three feet, nine inches also. Because I actually look these things up," she directs very pointedly at her sister, who counters, "I _did_ look in _A History of Magic_." Clytemnestra just tags along with the "smart girls" of Gryffindor's sixth years because we constitute the rest of her dormitory and because her twin sister is one of us.

"So," Clytemnestra pipes up again cheerfully, "anyone been asked to the Yule Ball yet?"

Oh, God. Here we go again…

"Besides you, you mean?" Helen asks wickedly. "You haven't talked about anything else since Andrew Johnson asked you. He isn't even that good looking. He has an acne problem, you can tell…"

Christine starts to snicker. I don't know why, because she doesn't have a boyfriend, prospective or otherwise. She always bemoans her mousy brown hair and dull hazel eyes, the freckles on her nose and the pimples that pop up on her forehead every so often.

"No one's asked you, Miss Most-Beautiful-Woman-In-the-World," Clytemnestra says indignantly and rather shrilly. "Anyone attracted by your 'face that launched a thousand ships' is quickly put off by your tongue that slashed a thousand poor boys."

"That's fine with me," Helen retorts haughtily. "Anyone who is attracted only by the looks isn't worth sparing from the tongue, anyway."

"_If _we may halt this lovely conversation…? We're going to be late for Transfiguration," I say sharply. We enter Dumbledore's classroom just as the bell rings, and he looks at the four of us reprovingly with those conscience-penetrating blue eyes as we scatter to find seats.

~~~~~~~~~

Friday. The week has been almost unbearable, what with girls batting their eyelashes everywhere, hoping to be asked to the Yule Ball, especially by handsome, heroic Tom Riddle…it's disgusting. The only ones who aren't doing it are those who already have dates (for the most part) and, of course, Minerva McGonagall.

We Slytherins have Potions with the Gryffindors today. Usually, I hate it – the constant rivalry between the two houses pervades the air, making the icy dungeon even colder. Petty insults and weak retaliation are pointless. Actions – Quidditch victories, well-placed curses – are more effective than barbed words that don't even sting properly. I don't get caught up in that nonsense.

But today, I'm going to see if I can catch Minerva alone after class to ask her to the Yule Ball. There are several advantages to going with her. It will make the rest of the girls terribly jealous; I will become even more enchantingly unattainable to them – I will have more power over them. Of course, the conversation will be far more interesting than if I went to the ball with any other girl. And the view better.

I always arrive a bit early, for no real reason other than to impress the Professor with my punctuality. 

Some punctuality – someone seems to have beaten me to the prize.

I don't mean to be lurking in the shadows of the halls, but I can see them, and they can't see me. Some boy, stuttering, stammering, and embarrassed (I can see why – the object of his affections is surrounded by her usual triple-girl entourage), asks Minerva if she would like to go to the Yule Ball with him. Behind her, the mousy-haired Mudblood friend is giggling softly, the dark-haired twin is giving the poor boy an encouraging thumbs-up, and the golden-haired one is smiling wryly. Minerva looks dubious, but she smiles generously – is she shooting a glance in my direction? – and accepts graciously. Well, the boy (William, I think his name is) isn't bad-looking. He's grinning from ear to ear, which doesn't become anybody. It seems to be a Gryffindor victory today.

I emerge from the shadows, and single Minerva out. "That was pointed," I say, smiling slightly.

"What was?" she asks, seemingly bewildered.

"Accepting right in front of me. I'm wounded," I say. I keep a wistful-regretful-wry smile on for effect.

"I swear, I had no idea you were there, or intending to ask me," she replies sternly. Her friends, knowing they have been dismissed but lingering anyway, giggle. The female sex can be so irritating.

Just then, the bell rings, so we all troop into the dungeon-turned-Potions classroom, and I am spared from having to think of a properly witty response. Looks like I'll have to settle for second best.

Professor Brurey has his harassed look today. That means we will be dealing with messy ingredients. Perfect. I can linger after a bit, cleaning up, and take aim at my new target.

Everything goes as planned the second time around. "Hi, Helen," I begin. Minerva's blonde friend has an acid wit, usually, but she is oddly speechless in front of me. I have that effect on girls, I know.

"Oh! Hello, Tom," she stammers, surprised and flustered.

"We both seem to be dateless," I say charmingly. "I was wondering if that might be repaired?"

"I – I'm only second choice," she replies, gathering her wits. "I know you were hoping for Minerva."

"Only because I thought you were unreachable. Aren't you overwhelmed with admirers?" My charm is on its highest setting. I think I'm making myself a bit nauseous.

Helen blushes. "Not really," she admits. I knew that, but anything for the sake of a date that I can stand. "All right," she says, "we are officially dateless no longer."

Not bad, I think as I walk away with a mostly fake satisfied smile on my face. She is beautiful, which will help with the other girls' jealousy factor. And she isn't overly _giggly,_ or simple. She doesn't seem the dancing sort, so perhaps I can steal one with my first choice. Good.

~~~~~~~~~

I am so nervous!…for no reason whatsoever. William O'Riley? Well, I could have done worse, but I could have done better, it seems, if Tom Riddle had been intending to ask me. He recovered quickly, though – he…er… "settled" for the most beautiful girl in sixth year and/or all of Hogwarts (who also happens to be one of my best friends. Coincidence or Tom Riddle plotting?).

I think it must be _him_ that I am nervous about. I don't know why. I don't like him at all. Maybe it's just that he likes me and I don't want to lose his widely sought-after admiration (a guilty sentiment).

"Minnie, I have never seen you primp or preen," Christine says jokingly from behind me. I'm in front of the big mirror in the dormitory, fixing my hair (again). All these wisps seem determined to be free of the bun I put them in. "You look great. No, don't put it back in – your hair looks better when it's not so severe. And for God's sake, lose those spectacles! You look like an old schoolmarm. That stern look you always wear doesn't help," Christine giggles.

"Don't – call – me – Minnie," I say through gritted teeth. "And I can't _see_ without my glasses! Would you have me dancing headlong into the trees?"

"Don't you know a spell to improve your eyesight, at least temporarily, Miss Know-it-All?" Christine asks grumpily. "Or can you make those stupid specs invisible?"

I shake my head in exasperation. There go the damn wisps again!

Clytemnestra and Helen both look absolutely gorgeous. The former is wearing gold dress robes, the latter shimmering blue with hints of sea green. I'm in red, but nothing as shining as the twins' garments. Christine, the only one going stag (as in our fourth year), has pretty lavender robes. I can't stand the fact that they can all get their hair to behave. Especially in those elaborate styles!

Well, down into the common room, where Clytemnestra and I meet up with our partners. William, who is of Irish origin, is very…brightly colored in Kelly green that contrasts with his mop of red-orange hair. My God, he looks like a leprechaun, and _I_ feel like an idiot.

Helen, of course, must wait until we reach the entrance hall to join her date. They look spectacular together, of course – she, the most beautiful girl in the school, and he the most handsome boy. They go together naturally. On his arm, I would look like a cuckoo next to a peacock. But it is a comfort that the peacock wanted the cuckoo. Now, I mustn't think jealous thoughts. That sort of thing ends friendships, and the last thing I want to do is alienate Helen over _Tom Riddle,_ the conceited, intellectually arrogant, self-absorbed Slytherin snake.

At eight o'clock, the doors to the Great Hall open and a river of unusually colorful people flows into the glittering room. It looks beautiful, with the twelve differently decorated Christmas trees surrounding long tables gleaming with the array of golden feasting utensils. There is a mad rush to find adjacent seats for dates and friends. William sits on my left, Christine on my right; as we eat, I turn far more often to my right hand for conversation than to my left. There is a great deal of snorting and giggling over turkey cutlets (me) and lamb chops (Christine) as we make sarcastic comments about our schoolmates' dress robes. There really are all sorts of ridiculous colors and styles – banana yellow, chartreuse, lace-trimmed robes on a boy. Clytemnestra, two seats to Christine's right, reproves us over Andrew's floppy blond-haired head, but then snickers very quietly when I compare the color of an outfit at the next table over to a pig with a sunburn. Our rude conversation, I daresay, would be a lot more fun and considerably ruder if Helen were nearby to join us, but she and Tom are sitting elsewhere, at the table where mostly Slytherins are congregated.

After we have all been stuffed to the gills with excellent house-elf prepared food, they expect us to dance. What a cruel world. Oh, well; _I_ haven't eaten much anyway.

The guest musicians are a band of some sort, equipped with a few trumpets and saxophones, a trombone, a guitar, a string bass, and a drum set. They play imported American music – jazz, swing, blues (or something like that). A few fast dances, and my toes are already sore from being trodden on. I retreat to one of the tables, now clustered around the walls to leave the dancing floor clear. To my surprise, Helen is already there, looking a bit tired and extremely disgusted.

"Hello," I greet her. "Why aren't you out there dancing?"

"Attack of the killer relatives!" she moans.

"What happened?" I ask dubiously.

"There are a great many disadvantages to belonging to a large wizarding family… First, you have the annoying little sister who teases you about having a _boyfriend_ who happens to be Tom Riddle of all people…then, you have an older cousin who congratulates you pompously on actually having a date this year…and for the finale, overly protective older twin brothers who tell your partner that if he _tries_ anything, they are going to kick his…well, you know. And then, your date makes a comment on the very interesting names of all of your relatives – it can't be just a coincidence that the younger sister is named Iphigenia, the older cousin is Penelope, and the twin brothers who love to pick fights are named Castor and Pollux, can it? Oh, my God…this is a nightmare."

By this time, I'm laughing so hard that I'm sure my face matches my robes. I'm still gasping for air as Helen asks brightly, "So, how's _your_ evening going?"

"I'm still afraid to take my shoes off in case my toes are bleeding," I reply breathlessly. "William O'Riley must be the clumsiest boy in Britain."

"Oh," Helen says. "Tom is extremely graceful. I'm the one who can't dance for horse manure. Well, I'm off to drown my sorrows in butterbeer."

~~~~~~~~~

Tonight has been very…interesting. As I predicted, Helen has been good for conversation – mostly making fun of schoolmates, teachers, public figures, the musicians…there have been more genuine laughs from me in these two hours of the Yule Ball than in the three and a half months we have been back in school this year. Helen's plague of relatives has been amusing, because I have no similar problem, but also painful, because I do not have that which Helen takes for granted: the closeness of family. Not much self-pity on that account, however.

She sustained the younger sister and the cousin with not much more than a very red face and a terribly pained look, but Castor and Pollux – what names! – seemed to be the final straw for Helen. She said something about drinks and scurried off. I suppose I shouldn't have asked about the mythological characters…that wasn't very nice of me. Ah, well, kindness is not in my nature.

Riddance of my official date was made easier than it should have been, but who am I to complain? To find Minerva – not all that hard, because she is one of the few people not on the dance floor. Her partner seemed to have been stepping on her toes quite a bit (serves her right for not waiting for me, now doesn't it?). Now I come to the part I have held out for. Only two hours into the ball.

"Hello, Minerva. You seem to have misplaced your date."

"I don't think he's at all wrongly placed, as long as he's not tormenting _my_ feet anymore," she replies somewhat coldly. I laugh, to be friendly. And her comment was amusing.

"Would you care to dance with a partner who isn't –ah – adverse to the concept of agility?" I offer, holding out my hand.

"Got anyone in mind?" Minerva asks extremely coolly, raising her eyebrows and looking skeptically and wryly at me over her spectacles.

"That was cruel," I comment with the wistful-regretful-wry smile on, slightly offended but mostly humorous. My masks sound like culinary dishes, don't they? "Are you wearing scarlet on purpose, Minerva?" I ask.

"Tom!" she cries, appalled. I didn't mean it that way! "I meant _Gryffindor_ scarlet! I'm in Slytherin green, and you are in Gryffindor scarlet. Are you making a statement?"

Minerva laughs, then asks, "Why do you want to dance? Have another theoretical hair to split?"

"Not this time, though a bit of intellectual conversation wouldn't go amiss."

"I don't really feel like dancing anymore," Minerva confesses.

I cock my ear to the music, then cajole, "Come on, it's a slow one."

She sighs, then says, "All right, fine…"

She feigns reluctance, but I have a feeling that her feminine little heart is hammering faster at the prospect of a dance with Tom Riddle.

~~~~~~~~~

"So," I begin, a casual demeanor covering up my nervousness as we walk onto the dance floor, "what is our topic of conversation for this evening?"

Closer up, Tom's forest green dress robes look a bit shabby – the only evidence of his poverty and orphan status. It obviously doesn't hinder his academic ability, and his bearing is that of a king.

Tom doesn't seem to have everything planned out (for once), so he actually considers my question with a thoughtful look.

"The theory of magic itself," he declares finally as we take up a waltzing position.

"Ah – we're going for the big concepts, are we? A bit ambitious," I tease. I can't believe he actually has his hand on my waist.

Tom grins, deliberately showing gleaming white teeth, and counters, "Ambition has always been one of my finest qualities. Now, let us begin with the generation of magic in a human. It is something like a genetic trait, is it not? It is usually inherited from a parent, but can appear, like a mutation, in a member of a line of – ah – non-magical persons."

Tom is obviously hedging around saying, "Mudbloods show up in Muggle families from time to time." Much too crude for elegant, eloquent Tom Riddle who is trying to disprove everyone's stereotypes (mostly accurate stereotypes, may I add) about bigoted pureblood Slytherins.

"Is the characteristic of…the inability to use magic, then, also similar to a genetic trait?" I prod. " 'Non-magical persons' occasionally are found in an all-wizard line; another genetic mutation?"

"Hmmm…lack of magic…perhaps like the tendency, in genes, toward a disease – some fortunate members of a family prone, say, to heart disease, may be spared, while someone in a family without a history of heart disease may develop it. That would explain (in common terms) Muggle-born wizards and Squibs."

Not a very romantic discourse for a slow dance at the Yule Ball. But what does that matter? Other girls would envy the chance of any conversation with the handsome hero who saved the school last year. That Ravenclaw right there is looking very distracted from her own dance partner.

"If the ability for magic use is like a genetic trait," Tom muses, "then why are certain instruments – namely, the wand – required for effectiveness? And what of incantations? Does one need any artifact or spell to wield the color of one's hair?"

I laugh slightly at the absurdity of this comparison. "I believe it has something to do with control, and teaching control to young witches and wizards – it is easier if there is standardization of the way to use magic. Magic is possible without a wand – before they are discovered, Muggle-born witches and wizards may cause unusual phenomena (explained, of course, when they receive the acceptance letter from the school of witchcraft and wizardry). But magic without a wand is highly spontaneous, being activated by strong emotion; it cannot be regulated, if there is no name for or limit to the heinous actions that may be committed unintentionally because of a particularly vicious surge of anger. These uncontrolled bursts of raw magical activity generally stop when the newly discovered magic user is taught the use of the wand and the proper words for a command. But it is not impossible to perform magic without a wand after formal magical instruction – a skilled Animagus can transform without the aid of a wand."

Though no one moves around very much while dancing, Tom and I are standing almost completely still, engrossed in our exploration of ideas. Everyone is steering around us. I see, out of the corner of my eye, that the single Christine has taken William under her wing and is now coaching him on where to place his feet so that they do not encounter hers. Helen is making small talk with a Ravenclaw friend of ours, Serena Silverlake. She catches my eye momentarily and, far from being jealous, flashes me a thumbs-up and mouths something that looks suspiciously like, "You go, girl." I'll have to ask her about that…

"Is the wand an aid, then?" Tom half asks me, half ponders to himself. "Does it amplify the magical energy emanating from its wielder, the way a megaphone does a voice? A wand is most attuned to one particular witch or wizard – that may be because its magical property of magic enhancement is only compatible with one wizard's magic. Though other wizards _can_ use the wand…I wonder…could the magical core of a wand convert the _human_ energy of a Muggle into magic?

"Or, since you spoke of control, is the wand a different sort of channel, one that dilutes, tempers, the 'raw' magic of its user? In that case, one could develop a different method of magic – a more powerful one, without the hindrance of the wand… Shouldn't we at least be taught emergency – er – wand-less magic, in case we are disarmed?"

The music has stopped, so I quickly drop Tom's hand (mine isn't sweating _too _badly) and say politely, "You've given me a lot to think about."

He gives me a roguish grin and teases, "Tired already? Are you out of shape, Minerva? Too much time spent in the library and not enough on the grounds, I daresay…"

"I am _not _tired _or _out of shape!" I exclaim indignantly.

"Then you can't say no to another dance," Tom challenges me.

"Very well." It's one of those fast swing numbers. What have I gotten myself into?

I have no idea how to swing dance, so I let Tom steer me until I – er – "get the hang of it." American music and dancing are really quite ridiculous, but infectious in their way.

"Well," I say, while twirling under Tom's arm, "to continue our original discussion, I don't know what the correlation is between the wand and the incantation spoken to achieve a certain effect – could one say the words of a charm and cast the spell without a wand? The magical ability is there… Come to think of it, what is it that makes a Muggle unable to do magic? Is it that the wand wouldn't respond to a non-magical person's command, either verbal, as in Charms, or mental, in Transfiguration? Would a Muggle be able to mix an effective potion, it being just combining certain ingredients in specified quantities? Or is the natural magic of the mixer required for the potion to have any power – like only a professional chef having the ability to make a dish truly excellent? Oh, da – I mean, blast…"

My hairdo has finally given up the ghost, as it has been threatening to do since I first put it up. My hair is falling in my face; pins are stuck in the tangled mess.

"Excuse me," I say to Tom, then hastily exit from the dance floor. I stop at a table, where I extract the pins from my hair and try to sweep it back up into a cursory bun.

"No," says a voice softly, and a gentle hand is placed on my wrist, which is in midair as I try to resurrect my hairstyle. Startled, I turn to find that Tom has followed me.

"I like your hair better down," he says quietly.

"It gets in my face," I protest irritably. I try to comb my disordered hair out with my fingers until it looks at least presentable. _I like your hair better down…_ Did Tom Riddle really just say that to me?

"Take off your glasses," he says compulsively, and I obey, mystified.

"You actually look like you're sixteen now," he jokes, "rather than forty-five."

"I'm also as blind as a bat," I joke in return, raising the spectacles back to my face.

"I'll keep you from dancing into the Christmas decorations," Tom says, taking the glasses out of my hand and leading me back to the dance floor.

"Could you explain to me this behavioral pattern of yours, Tom? Since when have you cared about my hairstyle or my glasses?"

"I'm courting you," he says charmingly, a feigned look of surprise on his face, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Can't you tell?"

"Stalking me, I think, would be a more accurate description," I mutter, deliberately loud enough for him to hear me. We both laugh.

This is either funny, or creepy, or just monumentally weird.

~~~~~~~~~

After Christmas break, Minerva came to class, for once, with her hair down.

For me, the holiday was very quiet – more of the same reading, pondering, doing homework, plotting my rise to power as Lord Voldemort (like the name? "I am Lord Voldemort" is an anagram of "Tom Marvolo Riddle," and "vol de mort" is French for "flight of death." Very convenient, really), et cetera, in the blessedly deserted Slytherin common room. Minerva went home to stay with her family – since she has one – and apparently did some serious consideration of the romantic nonsense I spewed at her the night of the Yule Ball. All right, it wasn't entirely nonsensical. She does look almost beautiful with her hair liberated from the severe bun she always puts it in, and her face not covered up by those ridiculously old-fashioned spectacles.

I am surprised when I see her in the halls with her black hair hanging loose. Her friends are obviously alarmed as well, for as I approach, I hear Christine asking incredulously, "Whatever possessed you to stop pulling your hair back in the schoolmarm knot? Have you decided to finally take my advice and act like a teenager?"

"Hello, Minerva, Helen…and Clytemnestra, and Christine." A long salutation, for I take care to address them all by name. I must not act too suspiciously like I am singling Minerva out.

"Hi," the other three say, at slightly different times, and with varying levels of embarrassment. "Hello, Tom," Minerva says, blushing for once (if only mildly), which is satisfying.

"I definitely like your hair better down," I comment, smiling (as usual). After my remark, the incredulity vanishes utterly from Minerva's friends' faces to be replaced with an expression of gleeful enlightenment. It seems that they have realized the reason for Minerva's sudden change in style.

"Now we need to lose the spectacles," I say, smiling yet more broadly and somewhat crookedly.

"I can't see without them!" Minerva protests stubbornly.

"But do they have to be rectangular?" Clytemnestra whispers unexpectedly from behind Minerva. This provokes a laugh from all five of us – though Minerva's is half-hearted.

Then they hurry off to Transfiguration as I head in a different direction towards the Charms classroom.

Life doesn't exactly go back to normal. Minerva and I increasingly seek each other out, in the library at lunch, or in the halls. Just to discuss homework, or the latest Arithmancy lesson…or anything at all. There is very little holding of hands, and certainly no kissing. But we both seem to know that this isn't quite friendship – it's more uncomfortable than that.

"It's rather odd, isn't it?" Minerva asks awkwardly on the subject of our relationship. "A Gryffindor and a Slytherin… I mean to say, it contradicts the traditional relationships of the Houses – what with the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry…"

To which I respond gallantly: "What does it matter? Love always finds a way." Love? I didn't mean that, did I?

"Romeo and Juliet ended up dead," Minerva comments bluntly, citing a famous piece of Muggle literature with which I am familiar; she has probably been acquainted with it by her Mudblood friend.

"Whoever said we were going to be as stupid as Romeo and Juliet?" I return. We're not going to get married in secret or anything. And anyway, neither of us would commit suicide for the other.

A different discussion: "How often do you think about the future? What are your plans?" I ask Minerva.

"I suppose this is as close as you're going to come to saying, 'What do you want to be when you grow up?'" she teases. Yes, my question did come out sounding immature. Then she turns thoughtful and replies, "I know that I want to be come an Animagus – the concept has always fascinated me. I would transform into a Gryffindor lioness," she jokes, "but it doesn't seem that practical for Britain. No, I think I'll become a cat. As for a human career – who knows? I might go into the Ministry of Magic – I could do some good sneaking around for investigative departments in cat form; or I might work at Hogwarts. Become a teacher. Transfiguration, of course – it's my strong suit. And you?"

I smile devilishly, then answer, "I'm going to become a ruthless Dark Lord and take over Europe." Let her think I'm kidding. I know she will; that's why I told her the truth.

"Oh, be serious, Tom!" she laughs. She does think I'm kidding. She'll forget I told her at all. But she is the first, perhaps the only one, to be warned of the rise of Lord Voldemort. 

"So," I continue, "do your plans for the future include me?" Do mine include her? Do I know at all?

"Maybe they should," she teases, laughing, "so I can keep you out of trouble."

"Yes, I need someone to take me in hand," I respond in like spirit.

~~~~~~~~~

"What on earth are you doing?" Christine asks me incredulously. We're in the Gryffindor common room – she is in one of the big, soft armchairs in front of the fire. Clytemnestra and Helen are playing wizard chess on the floor. (Helen has decided to call it the Battle of Troy, her pieces, of course, being the Trojans, and Clytemnestra's the Greeks. Iphigenia, their sister in fourth year, is trying to help out her dark-haired older sister; Helen is threatening to sacrifice her to the winds. The battle isn't going exactly the way the mythological one did – Troy is winning. Achilles is dead and Hector is alive and thriving. Oh, well.)

"I'm fixing my specs," I say distractedly to Christine. I am stretched out on the floor right now, taking my wand to the hideous rectangular spectacles I always wear.

"Fixing them?" Clytemnestra and Helen ask simultaneously, looking up from their chess game. Clytemnestra's tone is curious; Helen's is dubious. "What are you _doing_ to them?" Christine asks warily.

"Clytemnestra's right – they don't have to be rectangular. I'm transfiguring them to make them oval."

"Oh, my God," Christine sighs, shaking her head. "Tom Riddle's making her crazy," she whispers to the twins on the floor.

"I heard that," I inform her irritably. But I don't contradict her.

Tom and I have talked about our "plans for the future" with each other. (Is that serious?) He asked me if mine involved him. I admit to an acceleration of heart rate when I heard that. I made a joke, of course – but is my future intertwined with his? Or will our paths diverge and never cross again?

In mid-January, we are still "going together" – meaning that there is nothing serious going on, but that we are known to be in a relationship of some sort. I'm not sure if Tom meant to get the other girls off his back by letting it be known that he and I are "together"; if he did, it's not working. Just the other day, a Slytherin girl named Florence Rosier approached him in the library, batting her eyelashes and asking seductively if Tom would help her with her homework because he was "so smart and nice…" "Gag me with a spoon," as Helen would say.

We are in the library after lunch, as usual, when the five-minutes-until-class bell rings. "See you after the next interminable lesson, then?" Tom says casually, extracting his fingers from mine. Why didn't I notice that his hand was playing over mine?

I laugh and say in a mock-comforting tone, "Someday the class shall end and we will be free…" of which I'm not so sure, since the next item on my schedule is History of Magic. Tom has Divination, which I would certainly be miserable in. I tried Divination in third year, and did not go back in fourth year, having found it…not to my liking. Load of hogwash, in fact.

I bend over to pick up my book bag, and my newly liberated hair falls into my face. I unsuccessfully to shake it out of my eyes – neither of my hands is free, one supporting the strap of the bag, and the other clutching a few stray books that, if in my bag combining their weight with the rest of the contents, would split the seams. On impulse, it seems, Tom reaches to tuck the stray hair behind my ear. Then, compulsively – thank God no other students are present and the librarian isn't watching! – he leans over and briefly, lightly, kisses my cheek, his lips perilously close to my own. Then he rushes away into the hall, and I am left standing speechless and hot all over with embarrassment.

What the bloody hell was that?

~~~~~~~~~

What the bloody hell was that?

What strange compulsion possessed me to kiss her? This is _not_ one of those sloppy, mushy, look-into-each-other's-eyes, kissing relationships! I cannot believe that just happened. I need to be alone, to think and regain my composure. But I have never cut class in my life, so first I drop in to the North Tower to inform Professor del Phi that I am not feeling well, so I need to go back to the dormitory to lie down. I rush back out of the classroom so that I do not have a chance to linger on Florence Rosier's disgustingly sympathetic expression and make myself feel even more ill than I already do.

I quickly give the password at the entrance to the Slytherin common room – "dragon's blood" – and dash through to the sixth year boys' dormitory. I sit on my four-poster bed with the forest green curtains closed to enjoy the darkness, peace, and solitude. Then I consider what to do next. I need advice, for once in my life. I am confused for the first time. I am always completely sure of myself, my goals, my course of action. Or I was. But I have no one to turn to when I do need someone's wise counsel – no mother, father, guardian of any sort to write to.

What I do have, though, I suddenly remember, is myself when my aim was clear.

I do not have to rummage in my trunk to find my diary, because everything is impeccably organized. Diary? God, no, I am not a sentimental little girl who confides in the imaginary friend she finds in the pages of a diary. I put the memory of myself in a diary last year using a number of complicated spells that I do not care to enumerate and explain right now – let us just say that it was something like storing thoughts in a Pensieve, only much more was stored.

I gather diary, quill, and ink bottle onto the bed to write. _Hi, Tom,_ I write on the page of January first. The writing is absorbed into the paper. It is working perfectly. _It's_ _you, a year later._

Oh, hello, Tom, my own handwriting returns to me, in my own black ink. _It's been lonely in here._ I laugh at the jest my fifth-year self has made.

__

I need your advice, I write on the page.

__

Why can't you just talk to yourself? It takes up less ink, the reply comes back to me.

__

Oh, I'm sure you're so busy that you can't take the time, I tease myself – or the memory of my fifth-year self. This is very odd.

__

Shut up.

You see, I'm having a girl problem, I begin, feeling very awkward. My fifth-year self is probably the person who would be most critical of me right now.

__

What, they won't leave you alone? That's old news.

No, no, that's not it at all, I write hurriedly._ It's just one girl. And I don't mind at all that she doesn't leave me alone. I'm worried, because I think I just kissed her – sort of – and that may mean that I broke my promise to you and myself and Lord Voldemort. And my mother._

__

Don't tell me you're in love! Let me guess – Minerva McGonagall?

Was I enchanted by her last year, too? I taunt my memory.

__

I adhered firmly to my resolve. I was the Heir of Slytherin! I wasn't going to be weakened by love, the writing on the page appears. I know that the thoughts of last year's self are grim.

__

Yes, that's why I came to you. My head was level last year, because I had a taste of power and I wasn't going to let anything make me lose it. But Minerva said she would "keep me out of trouble." That's not what I want. I told her about becoming a Dark Lord, you know. As a joke. The irony, of course, was just for myself. My troubled thoughts are rambling. Though my confidant will understand, for his own mind spins in the same way.

__

If she's only getting in your way, then why hesitate in clearing the obstacle out?

I wonder how to answer that without sounding sappy or lame. _Because she's more than just an obstacle._ Ooh, sappy _and_ lame. I am _talented._

Oh, yes. You love her. Her eyes are like twin placid pools that you could just drown in… 

Now he's poking fun at me. _They are not!_

Oh, excuse me – not pools, wells… This is when I really hate my cruel sense of humor.

__

Minerva's eyes are neither pools nor wells that I could drown in. They're more like flint – dark, cold, and hard.

Flint that strikes and sets your heart aflame… Ooh, I wax poetic when I'm in love.

Shut up, you git! That boy on the other side of the page is really getting on my nerves.

__

You just called yourself that, you know. Anyway, Tom, this girl is affecting your reason badly. Get rid of her, if you ever want to rule Europe with the iron fist of Lord Voldemort. If you want followers, you can't have some woman dangling you_ on a string. Love is a weakness – remember that. Ordinary people fall in love. You are supposed to be above ordinary people._

That was what I asked for when I requested his advice – a good, hard slap in the face to bring me to my senses. It hurt, but I needed it. _Thanks,_ I tell the person I was a year ago…back when my vision was clear. _I guess all of that – insults and everything – was what I needed._

I close the diary with a final-sounding snap, lie back, and stare at the canopy of my bed, my face stony. My heart (whatever I have for a heart) is stony again, too.

The next day, a Wednesday, I force myself to be unaffected by her. Long, luxurious, raven-black hair; ivory skin; flashing eyes of flint that _would_ set a man's heart aflame – none of it is at all enchanting to the soul that is set upon the strength to resist. She has lost some of her appeal, now that _she_ no longer resists _me_. Since I have her wrapped around my finger too, I'm going to see her as a girl just like the rest.

At lunch, after the morning's classes, I don't eat much. I'm composing my break-up speech. I've never done this before, because I've never been in any sort of a relationship before. I understand exactly why not as I watch Florence flirting with the other boys, but looking pointedly at me. And I'm supposed to be jealous of them…why?

Going to the library, I have to remind myself that I'm going to build up an immunity to love _now,_ before I wind up with a broken heart and a broken future like my mother did. I'm the one that's going to be breaking hearts – I mete out justice. But leaving Minerva lonely is going to be difficult…I wonder if I _was_ in love with her. No, I wasn't, I try to persuade myself.

Minerva is sitting at her usual library table, with just the Mudblood friend today.

When I come face-to-face with her, I don't lose my resolution. I take a deep breath and say, "I've done some thinking, and…you're right – a Gryffindor and a Slytherin? It doesn't work. We should end it now before something else does." I'm still smiling. Wistful-regretful smile, ever charming, of course.

"This from Mr. 'Love always finds a way'?" Poor Minerva. Still joking. But I can tell that her cool façade belies what is going on inside.

"I was being stupid when I said that, I know," I go on. "I'm sorry, Minerva. I just – we can't work. Our houses will come between us. I wish I didn't have to do this…I'm so sorry." Am I?

I walk away slowly and deliberately to emphasize my regret. Oh, well. I wasn't in love, really – I'll get over it. For the sake of my mother and the Dark Lord I will become. It was just an intellectual relationship, a schoolboy crush.

~~~~~~~~~

That came like a slap in the face.

I'm just standing perfectly still, my mouth hanging open slightly, utterly shocked. Christine addresses me cautiously from behind me.

"Um…Minerva?"

I come to abruptly, though not as abruptly as Tom just dumped me. Wanted to get me out of his greasy, perfectly arranged jet-black hair, did he?

"He was wearing that God damn smile the entire time," I remark very calmly to Christine. "That's how I know it's a mask."

Then I take off my glasses and tap my wand to them. They are far more willing to assume their original rectangular shape then they were to become oval. Then I start to sweep my hair into a bun again, and hold it in place with a tap of the wand and a whispered, "_Afixipelus!_" (The librarian, Madam Litt, fixes me with a stern look. She disapproves of magic in the library.) Anything I did for Tom Riddle, I undo now that it's over. Christine just sits and watches me sadly.

"It was just an intellectual relationship…just a schoolgirl crush. I'll get over it."

"Oh, but Minerva, it could have been much more than that," Christine protests, her voice as melancholy as her face.

"When you say something ridiculous like that, you're supposed to call me 'Minnie,'" I say irritably. "It lets me know you're joking."

Christine is back to looking at me sadly. It's getting on my nerves.

I shake my head, impatient with her, and with my own sorrow and feeling of betrayal. It was never more than what I said it was! Everything is going to be back to normal, rectangular spectacles, severely pinned-up hair and all. I'm going to become a cat Animagus, teach at Hogwarts or something, and live all my life perfectly ordinarily, in denial that I ever liked Tom Riddle. He's going to forget about this short-lived intellectual relationship and school crush, and I'm going to forget about it, too.

Won't we?


End file.
